


I Really Wish To Every God That You Were Innocent

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Season/Series 05, Spoilers, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can scream for him,” Lucifer finishes, and there’s a sickening crunch from twenty floors up, and for the first time, Sam hopes they kill his brother.</p><p>Lucifer's riding Sam 364 days out of the year. On one of those days, though, he gets to be with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Really Wish To Every God That You Were Innocent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/100303.html?thread=38256079#t38256079) over at spn_kinkmeme. (Per usual, there are spoilers if you care to read it).
> 
> Title taken from my favorite song, Better Than Yourself, by Lukas Graham. I would strongly encourage listening to this at some point during the reading, but, of course, that's up to you!

In the beginning, it felt like a sawing, amputation of a necessary limb.

Sam’s intimately familiar with pain, bred of agony; he embraced it, without warning.

He didn’t expect that.

How He could expect anything less from a Winchester is beyond Sam; he’s been built to avoid demolition, and in the event of a fissure, to wind himself back together.

In the beginning.

-

The Earth’s black like lung beneath them. They feel the tremor that cracks through the soil and the rubble, and it excites them.

This is the blood of the slain, the slaughtered, His children. There’s a reckoning, and it’s come and gone.

They can see the flayed remains of the Host, the way their wings cripple under the brunt of their own righteousness. They call out to the Host, voice a distant timbre of the way it used to sound, burnt bright by the sun.

“You belong to me, Brother!” They scream.

“I’m coming for you,” They say, and it’s quieter, almost drowned out by the crackle of earth and flame.

Sam can see between them, the stained glass of his own eyes, and their hand moves, hum of power trickling through their fingertips. Sam watches impassively; there’s nothing for him to do, locked as he is.

They are silent as the world shudders down before them.

-

Sam fights with every bit of his essence, mutilates his own body with each compulsory step. He rages in the beginning, against Sam, goads him on and forth; He likes a challenge.

Sam makes no sound, breaks down his walls until he’s face to face with the Morning Star, staring into the light-eyes of Lucifer himself.

_You won’t take me._

Sam claims, and it’s the only conversation he’s permitted, his only application for appeal. And the Devil smiles at him, the roiling black inside his chest.

Lucifer makes it hard to breathe, even worse for Sam to stand. It takes every ounce of his willpower to remain upright when facing him, to bear the sickness.

“Sammy,” Lucifer begins, and it reverberates within their shared consciousness. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be making threats?” Lucifer throws their arms out wide, turns around in a half-circle to look at their domain.

 _you’re still talking to me, aren’t you?_   Sam says, and he can feel the blood hum through their veins, the flash of brimstone in their chest.

“If I wanted you quiet, Sammy, I’d keep you that way.” Lucifer’s voice is steel-tipped but languid, friendly chill that he likes to take on when it’s just him and Sam. The way it’s been for five years past. This internal banter that Sam holds onto with a white-hot burn.

Sam presses out with his mind, and it’s his body, it is---it isn’t some collective--and his right hand flips up and out.

He wraps his palm around his left wrist and turns it deftly, snapping his own bone. The shock of the break momentarily stuns Lucifer. The mass turns blacker and then blush-red, and finally, Sam can hear laughter over the pulse of agony in his head.

Lucifer recedes to make sure that Sam feels every ounce of self-inflicted pain, and Sam’s quiet, because he’s already learned this lesson.

He’s dislocated more bones than he can count, at the insistence of John, and this isn’t anything different. He breathes through the first wave of hurt, presses it to the side of his mind, too fresh to shove to the recesses.

“Feel better, Sammy?” Lucifer grates out, and Sam knows he’s not as unaffected as he likes to appear. Sam tests his own autonomy, comes up against the steel and lead wall of Lucifer’s power.

He’s shored behind it again, and Sam feels his despair flare up once more.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Lucifer says, and Sam can hear the latent hunger underneath the question, the bloodthirst.

 _Turn me off, then,_ Sam demands, tilts his head up to face oil.   _Break me._

Lucifer’s grinning, Sam can feel it, the stretch of their canines, the shock of dark hair falling into his eye, even though they keep it slicked back, now. They don’t like for their vision to be obscured.

“Why d’you wanna be gone so bad, Sam?” Lucifer says. “Aren’t we just getting to the good part?”

Sam watches their eyes roam around, sniffs at the rot and decay of the wasteland before them. He looks down at the crisp snow of their suit, tailored and dirt free.

He can feel Lucifer knitting their ligaments back together, pressing shards of bone back in place like a jigsaw. The dull ache of the reversal slides across Sam’s skin, but he holds steady. Not the first time. Nor the last.

 _I make you weak. I’ll hurt us, because this time, you’re the one who cares more._ Sam stares into the face of Hell.

_This matters._

Lucifer’s mouth is taut, and Sam rolls his own wrist experimentally.

-

He likes for Sam to be present at the Trials, thinks that this is the way to force Sam’s hand.

Sam doesn’t give a fuck what happens to the Host one way or the other, takes almost as much pleasure in their burning as Lucifer does.

Lucifer recognizes Sam’s lust for blood and feeds it, and Sam has no one to be good for, not even himself.

It’s still flooring when he recognizes the misshapen heap that Lucifer’s cogs drag into the Throne Room; the body bent double in despair and bruises.

“Castiel.” Lucifer says, voice sonorous. “Brother.” Sam lurches inside their body and Lucifer laughs, high and long. “Don’t spoil it, Sammy,” Lucifer says, and Castiel drags his head up.

His face is covered with dried blood, caked and matted in various places. Cas’ left eye is swollen shut entirely, and when he stands, he places no weight on his left side.

Sam recognizes broken ribs instantaneously, and their feet slide forward in dismay. Lucifer growls, low in his throat, and Sam reigns himself in, with difficulty.

“Lucifer,” Castiel replies, voice pitched lower than gravel. “It has been a long time.”

Lucifer waves their hand negligently. “I should’ve invited you to Christmas dinner more often; you’re sorry you didn’t send me a present on my birthday.” Lucifer drags their hands together, grin lopsided.

“Tit for tat.” He continues, and Sam watches, breath laced up in his throat, as Castiel’s eyes roam over their body.

“He remains,” Castiel starts, and his crippled body straightens a bit, seemingly without his notice. His overcoat is ripped in numerous places, one sleeve missing entirely.

“You did not know that would happen,” Castiel continues, and Sam groans, curses Castiel’s lack of self-preservation.

Lucifer has tight control over their body, must read Sam’s desire to press through. “He can hear you,” Lucifer says, and it’s conversational.

“Sam.” Castiel says, and Sam can see the pride in the Angel, the way he doesn’t so much as wince even though he must be injured beyond comprehension. Sam wonders why he doesn’t heal himself, where his Grace is, but he’s silent. Of course.

“You are not alone,” Castiel says, and Sam screams, wants to dig their fingernails into palms, but Lucifer doesn’t give, keeps him shuttered close.

“We will not leave you here,” Castiel continues, and Sam wants to hold onto that, wants that to belong to him. But it’s been five years. Humanity is decimated by the Croatoan virus, Lucifer’s dead litter the streets.

Their hands have been covered with blood and fecal matter. They’re soiled from within, and Sam thinks he’ll keep himself here. He understands that his body is a massacre, and the Devil’s riding him like a finely tuned car.

Sam’s crying, but it’s tight in his enforced prison, and their face remains outwardly blank. “He will not leave you here,” Castiel says, and then Sam’s moving, wraps one arm around the curve of their head, the other curled around their jaw, and twists.

Castiel’s gait shudders as he walks forward, and Lucifer cries out as Sam valiantly attempts to break their neck.

He would’ve been able to do it, but Lucifer is not weak, regains his momentum in a matter of seconds. Sam’s voice shatters as he tries to hold onto the water-thin thread of control, but he feels Lucifer lower their arms back down to their sides.

“Thanks, _brother,”_   Lucifer says, and Sam’s chilled. He knows that tone of voice, it’s his own vocal range. Their voice is dipped low, the timbre of pleasure, and Sam realizes, with dawning horror, that Lucifer’s heard exactly what Sam did.

Sam straightens, looks through smoke and glass to see Castiel’s features wilt. At least he’ll die knowing, Sam thinks blandly, and he wants to fix this angel, the one who gripped his brother tight and raised him from perdition.

As Lucifer raises their right hand, flutters out two fingers and Castiel’s Holy Light consumes him and turns his broken body in on itself, Sam thinks it’s only fitting that the Angel is the one to send him back.

-

Lucifer burns the commune to the ground, blows a building apart at the foundation, bricks and plaster turning to ash under their feet.

Lucifer keeps the dirt off and away, Sam thinks it’s got something to do with the brightness of the landscape, the desire to remain unspoiled.

Sam wonders if they can see the black rot of their heart just the same.

When it’s done, and the dust settles, conflagration licking up to Heaven; bastard kiss to God, Lucifer brings him forth.

Sam’s face twists, and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this right here is enough. He could break through and kill them both, cauterize the wound of them from the Earth, but he can’t. Not now. Not ever again.

When Lucifer raises their hand, cups his brother’s cheek in their palm, Sam knows that he saved nothing, and there is no God.

-

Sam understands the first day he wrests control back from Lucifer, months after they take Dean.

Dean won’t look at him, keeps his eyes down and away, and he doesn’t try anything. Sam knows that’s not right, his brother’s not holding back.

Dean is aware that this is futile, though, so Sam suspects that he’s biding his time, something that’s always been more suited to Sam’s eternal patience than Dean’s impetuousness.

Sam thinks that the end of the world might change some things.

“Don’t wanna talk to Sammy here,” Lucifer says suddenly, and he’s grinning Sam’s smile, dimpling up in the corners with honest joy. Sam doesn’t want Dean to look, but even after all this time, Dean’s hardwired to respond to the delight of his brother’s voice.

Sam swallows the bile collecting in their throat.

Dean’s eyes flicker and then harden and he can see his brother’s jaw twitch.

“He’s ain’t in there, you sonovabitch.” Dean says, and Sam thrills at the sound of his brother’s attitude, and simultaneously dies.

Lucifer waves his dinner fork in the air, nudges the pasta closer to Dean. “Is that it?” Lucifer says, and he looks amused, brittle smile on their face.

“Say hi, Sam,” Lucifer waves, claps his hands together so that marinara sauce flies off of his fork and onto the wood.

Sam can feel the lowering of the defenses instantly, and he’s trained himself to react immediately to any out, any opening.

Sam twists the fork in their palm and stabs it directly into the side of their neck, twisting it a little so it’s lodged deep.

“Motherfucker,” Sam yells, and it’s hoarse, they talk all the time, but Sam never, ever has access over their voice.

Dean’s chair skitters back as his brother throws himself out of the line of fire, and then Sam’s brother is rising, eyes hot like death.

“Sammy!” He hollers, and Sam could die for that, the worthless propriety in his voice, as if Sam won’t always belong to someone else now.

Dean’s eyes are too big for his face, green-wet and livid. His brother grabs the back of the chair and holds it in place; breaks a leg off with one well-placed kick from his boot.

Dean’s sweeping the makeshift weapon up into his hand, and then Sam’s shoved bodily back into captivity. Sam feels Lucifer’s anger-tinged mirth, and he’s suddenly frigid.

He wants to scream for his brother _that’s not me anymore, that’s not me, Dean,_ but he can only watch, helpless.

Dean seems to realize it too, and, if anything, he grasps the shank tighter. “Don’t touch me,” Dean hisses, and his voice is like glass, broken bits of winter ice. His brother’s terrified, and Sam aches for him.

He can see that Dean can’t reconcile the beast wearing Sam’s face and body and heart, and he wants to reach out and kill, but he can’t murder his brother by his own hand, and that’ll be their undoing.

“Don’t need to,” Lucifer says, and reaches their hand up to drag the prongs of the fork out of their neck. Sam’s braces himself for the onslaught of pain, but Lucifer isn’t thinking about him, doesn’t even pause to let Sam routinely feel it.

Sam can feel the wound healing, knitting itself back together, but then Lucifer is stretching out their hand, and Dean flies into the wall, smacking his head back with such force Sam can feel the skin split.

Lucifer smiles, and effortlessly keeps Dean pinned there, slab of meat for consumption.

“Sammy,” Lucifer says, and it’s pseudo-regretful. “Control yourself, huh?” Lucifer says. “Told you to say hi to Dean, not get carried away.”

Lucifer twitches their fingers, and Dean’s hands fly up to his neck, claw at the soft skin until there are rivulets of blood.

Sam watches his brother’s face fade to claret and then climb quickly to blue, and Dean’s struggles are already weakening.

_Stop. Stop! I won’t do it again._

Sam hurries through the words, knows that Lucifer wants this, that he’s playing right into his hand. That this is what it is.

Lucifer holds on a little longer, and then Sam watches, sickly, as Dean drops heavily to the floor, and twitches once.

It’s a long time before his brother rises.

-

Lucifer rips into a pocket of school-children several months later, uses long Sam-hands to reach into their little bodies and drag them free of spines.

Sam watches the lurch of arms ripped from sockets, small toes severed.

There’s something calming about the entire process, which Sam later learns is his detachment from the carnage.

Lucifer bathes his arms in their blood and burns their crippled bodies together over a pyre. Lucifer’s thinking, remembering his brothers, understanding that he’s still waiting on his older brother to come for him.

Sam flings them from the top of the building, one of the few structures left intact. He can hear Dean’s scream, “Sammy, Jesus Christ,” so loud and terrified, because of course Dean would know when Sam comes back online.

Their body twitches and spasms against the ground, and Sam’s lit up with pain, it’s too much for him to think, except he can see his brother’s face, leaning over top of the building, and he wants to scream for Dean to run, while they’re down.

But then Sam can feel their bones close up and in on one another, feels his broken neck twist back to rights. When they’re finally upright, Sam can only feel a lingering soreness, and Lucifer turns to look at the pool of crimson they made from their landing.

“I wonder,” Lucifer muses, raises their hand to jerk Dean’s body into the air, and from so high up, Dean looks like a rag doll, his spine bent double.

Sam can hear his brother wail, can hear the thick sound of tears collecting in Dean’s throat. “S-Sam,” Dean calls out, and Sam can feel the sick twist of delight in Lucifer’s essence.

“How many times,” Lucifer continues, twists Dean’s arm high up behind his back, surely pulling the muscle, and Sam’s screaming, with everything he’s got in him.

And he knows what he looks like to Dean, killer, impassive, Joker-esque grin of triumph, but it’s not him, it’s not him, but then again, isn’t it?

Dean’s wailing, but he doesn’t ask for Sam again, probably didn’t mean to slip up the first time.

“you can scream for him,” Lucifer finishes, and there’s a sickening crunch from twenty floors up, and for the first time, Sam hopes they kill his brother.

-

Sam keeps himself under control, so that Lucifer doesn’t need to. It’s almost freeing that way, even though Sam’s just operating under the illusion of choice.

It is his. There’s no choice between he and Dean, and the Devil knows that’s how it’ll end.

The next time is the last time, and it’s already a mistake.

Lucifer won’t allow them to go anywhere without Dean, and it’s a grotesque parody of Before, the way It Was. Sam hates looking over at Dean through their eyes and seeing the pale flesh of his brother, healed of the wounds Lucifer chooses.

Dean’s got a slight limp, and Sam hopes to God they weren’t the cause of it. His brother’s body is bent in on itself, and to anyone but Sam, it might look like Dean’s given up.

Sam knows that it’s got the same flavor as defeat, but the taste of resignation is a little less sour. Dean won’t hurt Lucifer, not with Sam hitched along for the ride, and Sam won’t rise to Lucifer’s bait.

Sam knows the Devil intimately, understands what it means to have the Father of Lies crawling in his flesh like maggots, but he thinks that this is the first time he’s really felt like Lucifer is the epitome of evil itself.

Lucifer smokes out a hideout, surrounded by a few thousand of his men, and they tip their head up and back, watch as the Host comes thundering down from the sky.

For a moment, Sam thinks of Castiel and his insides twist up in discomfort. He wonders if Dean knows. His brother is looking up, eyes wide, and skin flushed. Dean must know. He can be unobservant, but he’s nowhere close to stupid.

Sam can see the human holdouts straggle out, rather face death on the outside than burn to a bloody crisp within, but They have no use for the stragglers, can only see Heaven’s Host with their blades and their right-standing.

The wings of the Host are white hot, several feet long, and They feel their own wings, black as the dirt beneath their feet, the black heart of their Father.

Lucifer remains enraptured, former brethren come to slay again, and Sam snakes forward, can feel the fault in the wall and he shoves his way through, like always.

“Take him!” Sam screams, and Dean’s head whips to face his on impact. Sam could cry, he knows that Dean can hear _him_ in Lucifer’s body, and Sam wishes he had time to touch, to taste his brother’s tears.

“Dean Winchester,” Sam yells, up to the sky, and that’s as far as he gets before he’s yanked back from the precipice, the flavor of his own voice trickling through his throat.

His words.

Sam’s chest is heaving with the excitement of knowing, the feeling of being, and the Angels swoop lower, and Sam knows they can see Dean, see Michael’s true vessel flitting about next to Lucifer, thin bones and defiant eyes.

Lucifer smites all those who come too close, and the rest take to the skies, call out for their Commander, for their Father.

“Brothers!” They yell, and Sam wants to look at Dean, wants him to disappear. He’s fucked up, again.

“Daddy left _me_ in charge!” Lucifer calls, and Sam watches as the Host’s wings flutter bright red in the setting sun.

They leave Dean behind.

-

Lucifer holds Sam right on the front row when they’re back in the Throne Room, as if Sam would take mercy upon himself, would look away from the heart of the carnage he’s wrought.

Sam knows how to take the loss into himself and survive, but this is a mutation, and he’s right in thinking that this will be his destruction.

Dean’s bent over, hands and knees on the stone beneath Their feet.

Dean turns his head to the left, spits the blood out of his mouth. “That’s it?” Dean says, even though his voice is barely audible.

Sam’s heart lurches into his chest, and he forces himself cold as Lucifer’s index twitches carelessly, and the blood pools up in his brother’s throat.

Dean looks up, and then shuts his eyes and looks away. Sam can see that Dean’s trying to hide himself, knows that Sam’s in here, watching.

 _look at me,_ Sam wants to scream. _You show me what I did to you! You let me see it!_

But Sam watches the blood coagulate and then drip down, watches his brother’s right shoulder give out, and then his left, the smooth smack as Dean’s entire body snaps down behind them.

Watches his brother twitch lifelessly, guttural moans of pain escaping, even though Sam knows, understands how hard Dean must be trying to hold them in.

How goddamned hard he keeps fighting.

 _What are you fighting for?_   Sam wonders desperately, and Dean keeps moving, body kept alive and strong by Their will.

This is the last time.

-

Sam doesn’t speak anymore, not even to himself, and Lucifer reaches out for him, especially in times of great distress.

“I know you’re in there, Sam,” Lucifer says, and even though it’s hushed, Sam can feel that Dean’s aware, next to them, listening.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” Lucifer says, and it’s wheedling, the way it comes out. “Come back to play. I won’t cheat this time, I promise.”

Lucifer peels the wall back, and Sam squints into the sunlight of his body, can feel his arms and legs and heart and mind.

Sam remains stagnant, and turns his head to face Dean.

Dean’s eyes are dead, must mirror Sam’s own, but there’s a heady flicker of warmth when they catch on Sam’s hazel.

Sam turns his face back forward, as calm as before, and walks himself back into his own cell.

Sam speaks for the first time in months, all he’ll provide the Devil.

_Close the door behind me._

-

On Sam’s birthday, he wakes up alone.

Not really alone, because Dean is beside him, instead of on the floor on a pallet next to Their bed.

Sam sits up slowly, so as not to jar his brother, and the burgundy blanket falls down his naked chest. Sam scrubs a hand across his sternum and freezes.

He feels the irregular thump of his heart, and reaches his hand up to twine through his hair.

_You’re not going crazy_

Sam hears, and he almost relaxes. He’s alright. It’s fine. He’s right where he’s going to be until the end of time.

He then realizes there’s something off about Lucifer’s voice. It’s in his head--rather than coming from within him, almost as if they’re separated.

Sam ghosts his fingers over Dean’s exposed skin.

 _Happy birthday, Sammy,_ Lucifer drawls, and the voice makes Sam’s skin crawl, he can’t even escape it when he’s not a part of it.

 _I’ll be back later to come get you,_ The Devil whispers, and Sam realizes that Lucifer thinks he’s earned this--earned the right to his own body, on this one day.

Sam doesn’t realize he’s crying and leaning over Dean until his brother stirs, slow awakening that Sam knows is a relic of Dean’s understanding that there’s no point in self-preservation.

Sam can’t breathe, tries to speak, but he hasn’t said a word since that last day, and that was at least a year ago. Lucifer’s been festering in his bones for six or so years now, not that Sam cares about time.

Time doesn’t mean anything when you’re damned to forever.

Dean turns to face Sam, face still slack with sleep, and he smiles, warm-burn. “S’mmy,” he murmurs, stretches his hand up to cup Sam’s cheek.

Sam’s face falls into Dean’s hand on instinct, and he wonders if Dean can feel the wet on his fingertips, when he’ll realize.

Some part of the irregularity must seep through, because then Dean’s flinging himself off and away, landing on all fours like a cat. Dean’s voice is labored, and he’s just in his boxers, scurries back like a feral child.

Sam’s irrationally hurt; he knows what this looks like.

“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is rust in his mouth. He clears his throat and tries again, wonders why it’s so difficult, when Satan’s been talking for the both of them.

Their mouth.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Dean’s saying, and it’s around this point that Sam realizes the room has no door, no windows, no exit of any form.

He wonders how they got in here to begin with. His laugh is hysterical, and oddly enough, he watches the fight drain from his brother.

“Sam?” Dean tries, and all Sam can do is nod, still halfway tangled in thick blankets. It seems Lucifer’s given the bed the royal treatment. That makes Sam laugh harder, and it’s not until Dean is close enough to touch that Sam realizes it’s just crying.

He’s just crying.

“Sam. Sammy,” Dean starts, like he’d know those tears anywhere, and Sam propels himself forward, smacking into Dean’s taut chest.

Sam can feel the bones right under the surface of his skin, pulls back far enough to see the waste of Dean’s body. His brother’s more wiry than before, his muscle more defined.

“You not eating?” Sam says roughly, and when Dean laughs at the incongruity, it sounds wet.

“Not really, Sam,” Dean says, and it’s soft. “Kinda hard to keep a meal down when you know the Devil’s riding your kid brother.” Dean means it as a joke, he does, but Sam knows it’s that much closer to the truth.

Sam’s hands come back up, wind around in Dean’s hair, and his brother allows it, and his body sags into Sam’s bigger one.

“Sammy, Jesus, why’re you here?” Dean asks, and his voice is brittle, the cost of him having to ask. Sam grunts, and his eyes are swollen with tears.

“S’my birthday,” Sam says, shrugging, it’s not like he has a way to keep track of time. Dean doesn’t either, even less than Sam, but he still lifts his head, cheeks suspiciously damp, and his eyes are chagrined.

“Really, Sammy?” Dean says, and then his brother runs tentative fingers across the plain of Sam’s chest. “You 34?” Sam nods, helpless under Dean’s gentle onslaught, and he’s taken aback when a cry rips free of Dean’s throat.

“Dean--Dean,” Sam cries, wraps one hand around the flesh of Dean’s upper arm. “Baby,” he says, and he loves the way the endearment tastes in his mouth. Dean shudders with the touch, or the sound, Sam can’t tell.

“S’wrong, baby?” Sam says, and he cups Dean’s face in his own once more. “J-Jesus, Sam, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Dean breathes, and his brother arches into the touch again.

Sam pulls back, wants to see Dean’s face better, but Dean makes a noise of loss and then his cheeks pinken, smattering of gold dust bleeding into his skin.

“Y’like that?” Sam asks, in awe, because Dean was never much about this, not Before. Dean nods, and his breath catches a bit. “Baby,” Sam murmurs, because Dean’s so tactile, so pliant in his arms.

“C’mon, Sammy, kiss me,” Dean asks, and there’s a fever in his voice that Sam craves, wants to feel it burn him up alongside his brother.

Sam drags Dean back onto the bed, and Dean’s shins catch on Sam’s thighs. Sam slots his mouth over his brother’s and they both moan simultaneously. Sam knows he’s crying again, but he can’t stop thinking about it, the way Dean tastes the same as before, why Sam thought he’d be more bitter, he doesn’t understand.

Dean opens his mouth wider under Sam’s ministrations, then wraps his fists in Sam’s hair, jerks Sam’s neck back and to the side.

Sam gasps out his air as Dean’s tongue flits out to taste the salt line of his neck, and Dean groans.

“Ah Jesus, sweetheart,” Dean says, and bites down so hard that Sam’s thigh jitters in place. “Sam, baby, you gotta hold on, alright?” And Sam’s not sure what he’s supposed to hold onto, but he’ll grip it tight enough to break, if that’s what Dean wants.

“Y-yeah, okay Dean,” Sam breathes, and then Dean’s ducking his head, shoving Sam down so that he lands on the flat of his back.

Dean wastes no time, scrambles in between Sam’s legs and knocks them wide. Dean’s eyes are lust-blown and hungry, bright embers that Sam hasn’t seen correctly in a long, long time.

Dean ducks his head back down, drags his tongue over Sam’s nipples, and they pebble up damply. Sam’s body spasms against his will, and he can’t see past the sheen over his eyes, because his body betrayed him, but it’s his own regardless.

Dean leans up, presses calloused hands against Sam’s cheeks, cleanly-shaven, courtesy of the Devil himself.

“C’mon, baby,” Dean says, and his face is broken-wide, splintered like wet wood, and Sam has to look down and away.

Dean’s not allowed to look at him like this. Not when he’s a part of Them.

“Don’t you dare fucking look away from me, Sam,” Dean says, and Sam drags his eyes back up, blinks into the face of his beautiful brother. Dean’s mouth is stern, but he’s crying at the same time, and Sam immediately has to brace himself from looking at the sheets.

“This is mine. You’re _mine.”_   Dean says, and there’s a desperation that never used to live there.

“They can’t have you.” Dean continues, and then he’s scrambling further down Sam’s body, broad shoulders knocking Sam’s knees even wider than before.

“Spread ‘em, baby,” Dean says, and then he’s leaning down, close enough to lick at the salt collecting at the top of Sam’s aching dick. He hasn’t been hard in so long--and even if he was, he doesn’t remember it. He blocks that part of himself out.

He doesn’t want that back.

Right now, though. RIght now, he’s leaking copiously, clear slick, and he’s more red than pink, edging toward the pain of violet. His cock twitches fruitlessly under Dean’s tongue, and Sam moans, heady and long.

Dean’s mouth cups the crown, and he swirls the tip of the tongue around Sam’s frenulum in a heartless tease.

“D-Dean,” Sam tries, because he can’t--he can’t hold on like that.

Dean just presses down further, only halfway, because Sam assumes that his brother is out of practice, can’t slurp Sam’s dick down like candy anymore.

That’s just fine, because Dean’s still tracing his veins like connect the dots, and Sam feels a pulse of pre-come well up and slide out, into the cavern of Dean’s mouth.

Sam’s hips are humping up for all he’s worth, and suddenly Dean’s hands catch onto Sam’s hips, press him firmly down into the bed. Dean dislodges himself and Sam can’t help the whimper of disappointment that escapes.

Dean’s smiling, and it’s lopsided. “Want something else, Sammy?” And Sam’s nodding, so hungrily he hurts his neck.

Dean’s face curls fondly, and then that dark look is back in his eyes, so vacant that Sam knows he won’t know the way to follow.

“Hold still,” Dean says, and then he’s twisting his body, still cradled in the V of Sam’s splayed legs. Sam can’t breathe, because this isn’t happening, Dean isn’t giving him this, but then his brother’s torso hovers over his own. Dean’s knees open wide around Sam’s ears, and Sam looks up.

He can see the dusky wrinkle of Dean’s hole, the hot-burn of Dean’s dick, jumping in anticipation of the festivities. He can see how tacky his brother is at the top, gets less wet than Sam, but when he does leak, it’s in greater quantities.

His brother’s balls are snug to his body, tight and warm, fine dusting of blonde hair over top. Sam gulps audibly. He wants to suck them into his mouth and warm them there.

“Give it to me,” Sam says, and it’s more breathless than he’d like to admit. “Fuck my mouth, Dean, c’mon,” and Dean groans heavily.

His brother inches back until Sam can snake out his tongue for a taste, and then Dean presses into the O of Sam’s mouth, bumping haphazardly against ridges of teeth and Sam’s slick tongue.

Sam’s slurping loudly, for all he’s worth, and his jaw is already sore from this angle; it’s been a long time.

Then Dean resumes his kitten-licks up the side of Sam’s shaft, bites down oh-so-gentle on the pink of Sam’s crown.

Sam chokes on Dean a little and then shifts his hips up in slow circles. Dean’s thrusting backwards, slow and steady, before he gives Sam the good fucking that Sam knows his brother likes.

Dean pulls up and off, leaving the tip of Sam’s cock with a messy kiss.

Sam likes that almost more than anything else so far.

He’s afraid Dean’s leaving, and as much as he wants more, he loves the intimate view he’s got of his brother, the firmness of Dean’s ass, paler than the rest of his already light skin, stretched open and wide.

Dean pulls Sam’s balls out of the way with one hand, thumb rubbing over them lightly, and then his mouth is back, suctioned to the dark of Sam’s hole, and his tongue runs around the opening with faint stabs.

Sam completely loses Dean’s dick, it flies up and out of his mouth, bobbing wetly in the cool of the enclosed room.

Sam’s moan is so loud it shames him, but he can’t stop the violent hump of Dean’s mouth, even as his brother laughs against his ass.

Dean pulls away for a second, breath heavy. “Love it when you sound like that, Sammy. Fuck, I missed makin’ you get loud,” Dean comments, and then he’s back at it.

Sam instinctively scoots further down the bed, raises his legs as high to his chest as he can so Dean has more space to work with.

Dean’s prying Sam’s cheeks apart, two wide hands, and they’re so warm and rough on his ass that Sam’s chest hitches with sense memory.

Dean digs back in, eating Sam out with the nastiest slurps, like he’s been starving all this long and he’s finally able to get in a hot meal.

Sam cants his body down and away, and then Dean reaches further in, thumbs sliding down the crack of Sam’s ass to meet at the sides of his hole. Dean rises up an inch or so, just enough to dig his thumbs into the furl.

Sam gasps as Dean pries his ass open wide enough around his thumbs to stuff Sam full of his tongue, knife deep inside him. Dean nips at his rim just a little, bites it slightly raw, and Sam reaches a hand down to his dick, doesn’t even think he really needs to touch.

Dean’s up and off so quickly Sam goes a little dizzy.

Sam must look hurt, but he sees how wild Dean’s eyes are, and he’s turning back to face Sam, so careful not to knock into Sam’s head with his knees.

“On my dick,” Dean’s chanting, and Sam can barely understand him. “W-what,” he tries, cranes his head up just a bit so he can hear his brother better. “You’re gonna come on my dick, Sam,” Dean says, and Sam’s not even shocked at the high whine he makes at the command.

Dean leans down, so close to him, and Sam can see the flecks of gold, and he thinks that they match Dean’s skin, and he’s losing himself so quickly it should be more frightening.

“Just like you used to, baby,” Dean croons, and Sam doesn’t know what he must look like, because Dean’s face becomes shadowed, and it’s more deadly than it’s been before.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean says, and then he’s leaning up and over Sam’s head, and Sam’s clenching his ass on emptiness, because he just wants Dean inside, sheathed in his warmth and on top of this body he’s been given.

Alone with his thoughts and his limbs and his veins.

Sam tries to bend his head backwards, to see what Dean’s doing, but he can see Dean’s nuts swinging just above his face, and he can’t help it, he surges up for a taste, captures one in his mouth on the first try.

Dean moans above him, entire body stilling in shock. “Sammy, shit baby, gotta let me go,” Dean huffs, and then he’s back, settling on his haunches in the middle of Sam’s body.

There’s a small bottle in Dean’s palm, and Dean looks down at it, faint smile. “Lube,” Dean says, and Sam’s heart thumps irregularly.

Dean blinks down at Sam, and it’s lazy in its acceptance. “S’your birthday,” Dean says, and there’s undeniable bitterness in his tone. “Think He wants to give you a good one.” Dean waves the bottle in explanation, and then time stutters forward.

Dean snaps the cap open, and then he’s drizzling, probably too liberally, Sam remembers from experience. But he wants to belong to Dean again, wants to pretend that he’ll have this always, that it’ll be his body and Dean’s body and they’ll be alone.

Sam wants his own volition.

Dean crooks two fingers in Sam and twists, unerringly hitting his prostate like he’s been doing since Sam was sixteen, wine-flushed skin and dark, innocent eyes.

Sam watches his brother remember, watches Dean stroke his own dick lightly as he fingers Sam open. Dean’s face is thick with concentration, as he re-learns Sam all over again, the way Sam loves it when Dean scratches his rim with the edge of his thumb on his glide out.

Dean hums in his throat every time Sam whimpers, and Sam knows that Dean loves that, likes him helpless and sky-worn beneath him, like an altar.

“D-Dean, please, I can’t not have you anymore, not right now,” Sam says, and he knows his words were all fucked up and should’ve come out better, but if anyone gets it, it’ll be Dean.

Dean’s mouth is pink and damp, and when he jerks his fingers free there’s a squelch of lube and skin and Sam pulls his legs up to his ears at the sound.

“C’mon,” Sam begs, and he’s breathless with the need of it. “Jus’ want you in here. You want it too,” Sam says, and Dean’s shaking, and his hands are glossy with lube, and his dick’s caked in it.

“S’gonna sting,” Dean warns, but his eyes are on Sam, so careful, careful, and then he’s pushing in, crown of his dick catching on Sam’s sensitive rim, and Sam almost cries with the goodness of it.

It burns.

It lights him up in places he thought were sewn shut, and he aches all over because he doesn’t want to be this exposed, but he wants even more, if it’s with Dean.

Dean’s completely silent on the way in, and his eyes don’t waver from Sam’s. Sam knows, implicitly, that he’s not allowed to hide, but his entire body quakes when Dean bottoms out, when Sam feels the snap of Dean’s hips against his ass.

Dean’s covered in a sheen of sweat, and he’s trembling almost as hard as Sam is.

“Feels like the first time,” Dean mutters, and it’s awestruck and onyx at the same time. Dean’s sliding back and then forward quickly, drapes his body over Sam’s and bites down on his pulse-point, hard.

“Jesus,” Dean says, screws his hips in a lazy circle while Sam breathes past the throb, loves the way he’s filled up and tight around his brother.

“M’not giving this up. Not you, Sam. Not you.” Dean’s saying, and Sam gets the feeling that Dean’s not talking to him.

Dean bites down on the soft skin of his neck, makes a collar of his teeth, and Sam whimpers, high and needy.

“Gonna come, shit,” Sam says, and there’s no warning, Dean’s pumping in lazily, and then he’s thrusting so hard that Sam’s hips fly off the bed from where they’re attached to Dean’s dick.

Sam’s cock gives one valiant jerk, and then he’s coming between them, his dick sandwiched between Dean’s mass and his own abdomen.

Sam’s mewling throughout, windchimes and baby grunts, and he can hear Dean above him, distant slap of balls to sweat-sticky skin.

“Fuck, baby,” Dean says, and Sam’s loose and pliant, wants to see Dean’s face as he comes. “W-what, what is it, Dean?” Sam asks, his voice quiet in his post-orgasm haze.

“Love you like this,” Dean says, and Sam knows he’s close, Dean can’t shut up the closer he runs to the edge.

“Hanging off m’dick like this, open and pretty and wet’n mine,” Dean breathes, and Sam’s ass clenches involuntarily around Dean’s dick, cause he wants that again so bad, and then Dean’s coming. His hips pump mindlessly inside of Sam’s ass, swivel and jerk until he’s satiated.

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t pull out, only turns until Sam’s the little spoon, and Dean can reach down and drag the blankets over top of them both.

Dean’s breathing hard, and Sam’s sleepy again, and he almost misses Dean’s hand carding through his hair, the hitch in Dean’s breath.

“I can’t do this,” Dean says, and it sounds like defeat.

It feels ugly.

“Do what,” Sam asks carefully.

“I can’t have you like this, like you’re my Sam, my baby--” Dean cuts himself off there, and Sam knows how rusty Dean is, how he probably didn’t say more than two words to anyone when they were apart. And God knows Dean hasn’t exactly been sharing and caring since Lucifer snatched him up.

“He can’t give me this, and then take it back.” Dean’s face is wet against the dip of Sam’s spine, and Sam presses his ass back against Dean’s hips, tightens around Dean’s dick when he turns into his own pillow to cry silently.

This is fucked up.

It’s a little while before they speak again.

-

“He did it on purpose,” Sam says, and he has to talk quietly, because he doesn’t like the sound of his own voice anymore. He can hear Them command armies, laugh in the face of innocence, and he’s glad for no mirrors.

Pleased that the only way he can see himself is reflected in Dean’s eyes.

“He knows you’ll stay,” Sam says, “cause you think there’s a chance you might get this again.” Sam says, and it’s dull.

He knows Lucifer, better than he knows himself, or the self he used to be.

Sam’s head rests on Dean’s collarbone and Dean runs light fingers across Sam’s temple. “I would’ve always stayed,” Dean says quietly, and Sam nods, restless.

“I know that,” Sam says, and it’s toxic to say aloud, he hates the flavoring of it. “But He--” Sam stutters and Dean drags him tighter into his chest, croons nonsense in his hair. “He doesn’t understand that. That’d you’d stay for me, and not because of me.”

Dean’s lips are hot to the touch when they brush against Sam’s forehead, he wonders if he’ll be able to survive this one.

-

Sam’s astride Dean’s lap, cooling come strewn across Dean’s chest, and Dean looks a little like the old him, self-satisfied smirk as he’d watched Sam ride his dick, chase his own release.

“Lookin’ like sin, Sammy,” Dean says reverently, brushes Sam’s still-sensitive nipples. Sam can feel several rounds of Dean’s come leaking from around the makeshift plug of Dean’s dick, but moans anyway at the contact.

He leans down, ass still moving in a phantom rhythm, and tucks his lips close to Dean’s ear.

“Say yes,” Sam breathes, and it’s difficult to say, with the way he’s feeling right now.

Dean’s neck snaps to the side, and his eyes are wide.

“What?” Dean hisses, and for a second, Sam’s afraid that Dean’s gonna displace him, pull him off his dick and throw him to the ground. But Dean only locks his hands around Sam’s hips so tight it burns, and keeps him firmly locked.

“What?” Dean repeats, and Sam’s so sorry about this. About it all.

“Do it. I won’t be able to tell you again.” Sam says, twists his hips to get more of his brother, mewls a little bit when the rawness of his prostate is stimulated.

Dean’s eyes are hooded, but he looks scared, and it’s not a good look on his brother.

“Sam,” Dean says, and it’s the second time this day it’s been so desperate and unstitched.

“We can’t do anything else but this,” Sam says, and it’s firm.

-

When Sam opens their eyes the next morning, he can feel the strangeness, the suffocation in his own skin that he thought he’d long gotten used to.

Lucifer opens their eyes and smiles into Dean’s face.

Dean’s awake in an instant, much more aware than yesterday, and Dean’s up and out of the bed without a word, already dressed in his old clothes.

Lucifer sits up, leans their back against the wall.

“Now Dean, is that any way to say thanks to me and Sammy?” Lucifer says, and Sam’s resigned. Dean can’t see his eyes, won’t know how hard he’s pleading for this.

Dean’s grinning now, and Sam can feel Lucifer churning inside them, like lava and rattlesnakes.

“I said yes, you motherfucker, now’s not time to play shy!” Dean yells, and suddenly there’s a high ringing, so high it ceases to be heard at all; it’s just a mutilated ache in Their ears, and Dean’s crouched on the ground protectively, arms curved over his head.

The light is quickly becoming too bright to see his brother, but Sam can hear the roar of Lucifer in their mind, the silent scream of _what did you do_

Sam opens his mouth.

 


End file.
